


A Visit From Death

by im_your_mom_now



Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers - Freeform, Everyone Loves Peter Parker, Ghost Peter Parker, I'm Bad At Tagging, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Kidnapping, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, i mean it's technically kidnapping, idk - Freeform, major character death is temporary, sorta - Freeform, teleporting, this fic ignores infinity war & endgame btw, too bad he dies lmao, you'll see what i mean if you read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_your_mom_now/pseuds/im_your_mom_now
Summary: "Am I dead?""Only temporarily."__Or: Death kidnaps Peter Parker because she's lonely and wants a friend. Too bad it spirals into something neither of them expected.__This work is part of a series, but it is meant to be read as a stand-alone as the stories in the series are all unrelated.
Relationships: Death & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Avengers Team, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Kidnapped Peter Stories [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154927
Comments: 97
Kudos: 220





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Side note: This story takes places before infinity war but after civil war. Bruce and Thor are still off-planet, and the Avengers made up after the events of civil war because they talked it out like adults instead of nearly beating each other to death in Siberia.
> 
> Another side note: I reference some characters from the Marvel Comics that do not make appearances in the MCU, such as Infinity, Eternity, Death, and Oblivion. In the comics, they're essentially cosmic entities who (in short) watch over life (Infinity & Eternity) and death (Death & Oblivion).

The punch to the face is jarring, but not unexpected. The tingling at the back of his neck alerted Peter of the threat behind him—and considering he's quite literally in a battle field alongside the Avengers against these weird alien robots, he kind of assumed it'd be one of those things—but like the idiot he is, instead of jumping out of the way, he turned around in time for a robot fist to slam into his face. Too bad the mask doesn't do anything to cushion the strike.

Peter gasps at the pain and leaps out of the way of another swing. "That hurt like a mother—!"

"Language!" three voices—Tony, Steve, and Sam—chime in through the earpiece tucked in Peter's ear.

Rolling his eyes and webbing the robot to the ground, Peter says, "I was going to say _trucker."_

Honestly, the team should know that Peter never swears by now. He's used just about every curse word substitute in existence: fudge, frick, freak, heck, heckle, shoot, trucker, holy guacamole, etc. He's also made some up, which has definitely earned him the occasional odd look.

Before the alien robot can cut through the webs, Peter launches himself forward with his feet first and lands a forceful kick to the head. It comes clean off and clatters to the ground.

The team—made up of Peter, Natasha, Clint, Tony, Steve, Sam, and Bucky—is fighting in downtown Manhattan. It's a Tuesday afternoon, so technically Peter's supposed to be in school, but he couldn't just sit in class while his teammates were battling alone robots a few boroughs over from Midtown High. He already got chewed out by Tony as soon as he swung into action and connected to the comms but easily integrated into the fight. Through multiple other battles during the school day Tony has realized that there's no use trying to convince Peter to return to class when he has already showed up.

Peter can tell that they've almost won already. The number of robots are slowly declining, meaning Peter isn't constantly being attacked from every direction anymore. He doesn't even know why the robot aliens are there for or where they came from, but he didn't exactly have much time for a rundown before he was thrown head-first into the battle. Or, rather, before he threw himself into the battle.

After taking down a few more robots, Peter looks up, chest heaving as he catches his breath, and notices the others regrouping down the street. He brushes the dust off his suit and jogs over, avoiding rubble and broken robot parts.

"Hey guys," Peter breathes, slowing to a stop and setting his hands on his hips. "So we won, right? The fight's over?"

Clint snorts. Steve just smiles at the young hero and says, "Yeah, we won. You did good out there."

Thanks to the mask, Peter doesn't have to try to stifle the wide grin that brightens his face. Having Captain America compliment you is like the sun reaching down and giving you a big hug.

Peter doesn't think he could ever get used to it.

While Peter's still processing the compliment, Steve turns to the rest of the team and says, "We all did good—we neutralized the threat and got all the civilians out of harm's way efficiently."

Still in his suit, Tony raises a hand. "So no need for a debriefing?"

"I second that," Clint jumps in.

Normally Peter would agree; debriefings are boring as heck. It's also a time when the others make comments and critiques about performance, specifically Peter's since he's still a rookie. _You didn't follow orders, you shouldn't have thrown yourself in harm's way, Sam had it covered, you took too long doing whatever_ , blah blah blah. Criticism is good, but Peter would be lying if he said it didn't feel like a punch in the gut. So yeah, Peter isn't a fan of debriefs, but he's actually somewhat looking forward to this one considering he doesn't know anything about the robot aliens they just fought.

Natasha rolls her eyes as Steve says, "We still need to debrief, it's protocol."

"Fine," Tony says, sighing dramatically as his suit's helmet recedes into the suit. His eyes shift to Peter and he points at him. "You're going right back to school afterwards."

"What? Why?" Peter exclaims. His voice comes out a little squeaky and he knows it makes him sound like a child. Well, at fifteen he technically is a child, but still.

"Because education is important and because I said so," is Tony's curt answer. He claps and addresses the rest of the team. "Alright, last one to the tower is a rotten egg."

Without another word, Tony's helmet covers his head and he's shooting up into the sky.

The others don't humor Tony's childish antics and head to the jet parked in the middle of the wide street. Peter happily trails after them. Upon boarding the jet, Peter finds an empty seat next to Bucky. The metal-armed man is kinda scary, but when Peter catches moments where his guard is let down and the hard look on his face softens, he has noticed how Bucky isn't an inherently scary guy.

The same could be said about Natasha. It could also be said about all of his teammates, really. working by their sides these past few months has revealed a side to them he hadn't seen before.

For example, Peter always thought that Clint was a serious guy from how stoic his face is. But then he witnessed the man start a prank war with Sam, who did not reciprocate the efforts. And Peter thought that Sam was a strict and emotionless soldier, but the man is a therapist for soldiers with PTSD on the side. Steve may be America's golden boy, but after listening to a conversation between him and Bucky, Peter has had a revelation that Steve swears like a sailor. And his birthday _isn't_ actually the Fourth of July.

The one person Peter has drawn closer to amidst unofficially joining the Avengers team is Tony. After the events of his freshman homecoming, Tony has taken it upon himself to make more of an effort to check in with him. Sure, it isn't lab days at Tony's side while he tinkered or anything like Peter had dreamed of, but it is nice knowing that he can call Tony directly and he'll answer (most times, at least).

Peter makes absentminded conversation with Bucky—something about a teacher that has screwed his GPA over—until the aircraft lands on the roof of the tower. One by one they file out and head down to the conference room to have a video call with the new secretary of defense.

Leaving his mask on, Peter plops down in a chair next to Tony, who is pressing buttons on a device to connect a call with the secretary of defense.

Everyone else files in: Bucky on the other side of Peter, and Natasha, Steve, and Sam on the other side of the table while Clint leans against the wall.

The meeting goes by uneventfully. Steve highlights the main points and fills the secretary—and Peter—in on what the threat was, and then how they handled it. He reports the injuries (a bruised rib on Clint's behalf and some minor cuts and bruises amongst the team) and apologizes for the destruction they may have caused in the streets of New York while they battled.

All in all, boring yet helpful.

Peter leans back in his chair and taps his gloved fingers against the table. A dull tingle at the base of his neck slows his movements. He scans the room, and when he doesn't spot any threats, tells himself to chill out—it's probably just some extra adrenaline from the battle.

A tap on his arm makes Peter flinch, ready for a strike or another fight, but when he whips his head around it's just Tony giving him an odd look.

"You paying attention, Underoos?" he asks, low enough as to not disrupt the meeting.

Peter nods and sits up. "Yeah, of course."

"Good." Tony pivots his chair back to face the holographic secretary.

After about eight more minutes, the debriefing comes to a close and the call ends.

Steve starts to clean up the area, and Natasha steps over to Clint, asking how his ribs are. Clint grins and says, "Peachy."

Natasha's eyes narrow. She lightly jabs his side, eliciting a gasp of pain from the archer. Raising a brow, Natasha says, "I'm taking you to the infirmary."

"Bossy woman," Clint mutters under his breath.

Peter pushes his chair back and stands, already dreading returning to school just for last period, when suddenly his body loses all strength and he just flops to the ground with a resounding thud.

The weirdest thing happens next: Peter _floats out of his body._ Like, his body is still limp on the ground, his face smushed against the floor and everything, but he's . . . he just stands back up.

"What the heck?" he whispers, looking down at his hands and arms, eyes widening when he can see through himself. His eyes shift to his body still on the floor.

Everyone's head snaps to Peter's still form on the floor. Tony's up in a heartbeat, rushing forward and kneeling beside him, turning him over.

"What the hell happened?" Sam asks, kneeling on his other side.

Tony leans back on his heels, mouth bobbing open and shut. "I don't—I don't know? Pete, can you hear me?"

"I can hear you," Peter says, frozen in place as he watches Tony and Sam lean over his body on the floor.

When Tony doesn't react, Peter steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. His see-through hand goes right through the man like air.

Stumbling back, Peter cradles his hand to his chest fearfully. "Wha . . .?"

The others crowd around his body with a nervous energy floating between them.

"Check his pulse!" Bucky snaps.

Sam sends him a glare, shouting back, "I will! I have to get the stupid mask off first!"

Tony takes it upon himself to actually take the mask off.

It's surreal, seeing your face without the help of a mirror or camera. Shivers run down Peter's whole body and he catches himself on the table. Surprisingly, he doesn't go through that like his hand went through Tony.

Peter's face—the one on the floor—is deathly pale. His skin is as white as a sheet, his features as still as a statue.

Tony rests two fingers against the tangible Peter's neck. Peter watches with baited breath.

Tony stills. His eyes widen in alarm. "No."

Sam looks up at Tony, frowning. "What?"

"No, no," Tony continues muttering, and Peter can hear his heartbeat pick up.

"I don't know what's going on." Peter's voice is high and tight. "Guys, I'm right here, I'm—I'm okay." But is he? Is he _really_?

"What's wrong?" Clint demands from the doorway beside Natasha.

"It isn't there," Tony says, voice barely audible. His hands are frozen, hovering over Peter's body. "I can't find it."

Realization dawns over Sam. He quickly presses two fingers against Peter's neck, his limp head shifting slightly, and when the man doesn't find a pulse, he lies his ear against Peter's chest.

"Son of a bitch," Sam curses. He straightens and presses two hands over Peter's heart. With vigor, he starts to do chest compressions.

"He's not breathing?!" Clint exclaims, shooting forward, but Natasha catches him from falling.

Urgency fills Steve's voice as he presses a button on the wall and demands, "We need a med staff in the conference room _now_."

Sam pauses compressions to pinch Peter's nose and breathe into his mouth.

Peter watches the whole thing go down. He watches Tony run his fingers through his messy brown hair—something the man has _never_ done before. He watches Clint and Natasha watch helplessly, as Sam alternates between rib-crushing chest compressions and breathing into his mouth, as Bucky paces, as Steve waits impatiently for the medical staff.

"Was he injured?" Steve fires off, fists clenching and unclenching.

"His suit's automatically supposed to report any injuries to me," Tony rambles, brow furrowing. He pulls out his phone. One hand still trying to soothe the Peter by running his fingers through his hair as Sam performs CPR on him, Tony holds the phone up and says with a thick voice, "Friday, scan."

Confusion and fear rise in Peter's throat. He's see-through, and he's watching his team try to resurrect his lifeless body. There's only one explanation.

"Am I dead?"

"Only temporarily."

Peter squeaks, whipping around as his wide eyes land on a dark figure sitting in the chair beside him. Her long, smooth legs exposed by her black leather shorts are crossed at the ankles as she's lounging with her boots propped on the table. Her skin is so pale it's almost tinted blue, and her eyes are ringed with dark eyeshadow rings that make the eyes of her eyes pierce into Peter's eyes. She's wearing a black top that exposes her midsection and matches her leather shorts, a long cape attached to the shoulders cascading down the back of her chair like a waterfall of tar. Her short dark hair hovers above her shoulders.

Peter takes a step back. His spider-senses blare in his head like sirens. "W-Who are you?"

Black lips quirking into an amused smirk, the woman picks at her black-painted nails and says, "I'm Death, darling."

_Death?_

"Did you—Did you just kill me?" Peter squeaks. His eyes dart to his body sprawled on the ground with Tony leaning over him.

Tony's hands are shaking. He has a bad heart, he can't be under this kind of stress!

"Peter," Tony's whispering, carding a hand through Dead Peter's hair. Sam has given up with the CPR and turns to the others, defeated and devastated. The same look mirrors on the other's faces as they watch Tony break down over Dead Peter's corpse. "Kiddo, please, open your eyes. You can't leave Aunt May, you can't—you can't leave me. You _can't_."

Peter blinks back tears. He's never seen Tony like this before. And the fact that he's breaking down because of Peter . . .

"Yes," Death says, pulling Peter from the traumatic scene. She shrugs. "But you'll be back soon, don't worry."

Gulping, Peter asks, "What do you want from me?"

"Good question," Death says, and when she opens her mouth to continue, the door busts open with medics.

Peter spins around. His heart tears into pieces when the medics have to physically pull Tony away from Dead Peter. Steve sets a hand on Tony's shoulder but doesn't offer any comfort. They all just watch, helpless and devastated, as the medics wheel Dead Peter away on a gurney.

A cold, boney hand on his shoulder makes Peter jump and look over his shoulder. Death, who is now standing behind him, says, "Let's go somewhere more private, shall we?"

Before Peter can reply, she snaps her fingers. An invisible force yanks at Peter's body and, suddenly, he feels like he's free-falling. A mesh of colors and lights and shapes flash before his eyes.

With a blink of an eye, it's all over and he's standing in a dark, empty library between two towering book cases. It's silent, the only sounds coming from his own rapidly beating heart and the buzz of a flickering light a few bookshelves over. The cool air against the skin of his cheek alerts him that he's now maskless.

A shive runs down his spine. He turns.

There's a wall of glass that stretches four stories up to the ceiling and begins at the floor. Behind the window is darkness. No stars, no city, no woods, no light, nothing. It's a void, luring him to step closer.

Death sits at a circle table with four chairs in front of the window. She's leaning back, one arm slung over the back of the chair, her other hand in front of her face as she examines her long, sharp nails.

Lingering by the table, Peter shifts his gaze from the darkness outside the window to the woman. He can't decipher how old she is. Her pitch black hair and pale, smooth face reflects youth, but her aurora mirrors wisdom of thousands of years.

Without looking away from her nails, she demands, "Take a seat, Peter Parker."

Peter doesn't hesitate. Pulling a chair from the table, he quickly sits, eyes constantly shifting as he wrings his hands together.

"Relax," Death drawls, a corner of her lips curled. Her piercing white eyes lift to meet Peter's.

It's hard to relax when you're literally sitting next to Death. Not to mention the fact that you just _died_ and watched your childhood heroes react to your death.

"Y-You," Peter says, but his voice is tight and weird, so he clears his throat and tries again. "You know me?"

"Of course I do," Death says. "I'm a cosmic entity, I know everyone." She lowers the hand she was observing and tilts her head at Peter, her short hair swishing to the side. "But I guess I do know more of you than I know of others."

Peter's brow furrows. "O-Okay."

"I've heard about you," Death continues. Her black lips purse slightly as she thinks. "I've met quite a bit of your family and acquaintances."

Peter's mind flashes to Uncle Ben and his parents. Swallowing around the lump in his throat and wiping his sweaty palms off on his thighs, he says, "I suppose so."

Death nods. "Yeah. Your uncle is a good man, and your parents—nice folks. I've also heard about you from others, though."

"Who?"

Death smiles, taps her long, sharp nails against the table, then tilts her head back to look at the ceiling as she lets out a soft laugh. "You wouldn't know them by name."

Peter frowns. Everything is hurting brain. "I'm sorry, but I'm so confused. Why did you kill me and bring me here with you?"

He tries to word us as to not upset her, but he's not really sure how to talk to a cosmic entity that embodies decay and destruction.

Death returns her attention to the wiry hero sitting across from her. Her gaze trails over him like slime. "Those people who have spoken your name have spoken highly of it. They say you have a way with advice, and sometimes just lending an ear. Is that true?"

Peter shifts in his seat. "Um. I guess so?"

Death considers his answer. Then, she nods. "Humble," she murmurs, smiling softly. She points a finger at Peter. "Ben said that you were humble. That's something he admires about you."

His heart aches at the mention of his uncle. Sometimes, when he's having a bad day, he feels guilty of his death. Sure, Ben didn't know Peter had his powers and Peter wasn't all that comfortable with them yet, but he still had them; he could've done _something_ to protect his uncle against that mugger in the street. Knowing that Ben doesn't blame him sends a soothing relief to his core.

"Do you know where we are, Peter Parker?" Death asks, drawing Peter out of his thoughts.

Looking around the dimly lit, vacant library, Peter slowly shakes his head.

Death motions to the large space and says, "This is my home. Well, more like my vacation home. I usually don't manifest in physical form, but when I do, this is where I reside."

"It's very nice," Peter murmurs, wringing his hands together and looking out the large glass wall at the endless void.

Death smiles, but it falters. "Yes, it is nice," she sighs, "but there is no one around to converse with. I hear stories of interaction when I deliver individuals to Heaven or Hell, but I have no experience. I am not like my brother Eternity, who embodies life and growth, or our father God, who creates all things; I am unable to form someone to keep me company as I fulfill my duties as a cosmic entity. I just . . . kill everything."

Peter sits forward, his brow furrowed. "That sounds really lonely."

"I'm afraid so," Death agrees, forlorn. "That's why I brought you here—because I am indeed very alone, and after hearing from multiple sources what good company you, Peter Parker, are, I have sought you out and delivered you to my physical home."

Peter isn't sure what he was expecting as an explanation, but it sure wasn't that. Ten minutes ago, he didn't even realize Death had a consciousness, much less experienced loneliness. It makes sense, though, now that he thinks about it. He would consider himself an extrovert—an awkward one—so he can't even imagine being stuck as an entity of the lack of life. No one to talk to about _anything;_ complaints, funny stories, interactions, crushes . . .

Does Death even get crushes? At this point, Peter isn't sure what to think.

He should be more upset that Death killed him just so she could have a friend, but Peter gets it. He's an extremely empathetic person by nature. So what if he's dead? It's only temporary.

"Cool." Peter sits back, glancing around. His eyes trail over the endless bookshelves. "So, you like to read?"

Death turns her gaze upon the books as well. "Those are not literary novels, they are books filled with the names of those who I have passed on."

"Oh." Peter looks back to Death uneasily. "So they're . . . dead?"

"Yes."

"Like, everyone who has ever died," Peter clarifies, motioning to the shelves, "all their names are written in those books?"

Death's lips quirk. "Yes, everyone from Adam and Eve to Alexander Hamilton to you. Although, I will have to erase your name eventually."

"Is that hard?" Peter asks. If everyone's names are written in the books, he assumed it'd be in ink. But if she could erase them, then surely the names are written in pencil?

"It'll take some paperwork and a conversation with God," Death nonchalantly brushes aside. "But it is not impossible."

"Hm. Cool." Peter's fingers drum against the armrests. His mind wanders to different things he wants to talk to Death about, but stops in his tracks because he wasn't brought there to talk her head off, he was brought there to be a listener and provide company.

Death isn't making any moves to spark a conversation. She's staring at him, blinking every few seconds, and makes Peter squirm a little in his chair.

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asks.

She blinks. "Oh. Yes. Talking . . ." Death looks away, and Peter swears he sees the slightest hint of red on her cheeks. "Forgive me, but I am not sure what to speak with you about. What is usually discussed during friendly interactions?"

"Well," Peter starts, "I guess it depends on the person. What are you interested in?"

Death's eyes narrow as her head tilts. "I am not following."

"Like, what do you like to do? Do you have any hobbies or anything?" Peter rephrases, using his hands in vague gestures as he speaks.

Death nods slowly. "I pull souls from failing mortal bodies and deliver them to their afterlife destination, although I suppose I don't enjoy it."

That sounds . . . terrible. No wonder she doesn't enjoy it. Heck, Peter would hate doing that, and Death has been doing it for who knows how long—the beginning of time, probably. But that's what Death does. Does she even do anything besides that? "What do you enjoy, then?"

"I am uncertain," Death replies, brow furrowed. "May I ask what you enjoy, Peter Parker?"

Peter enjoys a _lot_ of things. "Sure. I like video games, and hanging out with my friend Ned, and I like being Spider-Man, um . . ." He counts the activities on his fingers. "Oh, I like science stuff, like chemistry, biology, biochem, and math. I used to be in my school's robotics club for a while; that was pretty fun."

Death's frown deepens. "I do not have a particular interest in those fields of study . . . You said you enjoy 'hanging out' with your companion called Ned?" When Peter nods, Death asks, "What do you two do together that creates enjoyment?"

Thinking back at his memories with Ned, Peter can't help the smile that touches his lips. "We do a lot of different things. Sometimes we play video games, sometimes we just hang out and watch movies. I always have the most fun when I'm with him," he admits. His face lights up. "Oh! I remember this one time—it's probably one of my favorite memories—Ned and I went roller skating. We both sucked at it, we fell a bunch and ended up going home with a _ton_ of bruises."

Peter laughs at the fond memory, but when Death only looks confused, his laughter dies down and he clears his throat, unsure if he did something wrong.

"You enjoyed not being skilled and returning home with injuries?" she inquiries.

"Well, the bruises hurt for a while, but we still had a lot of fun because we were together," Peter explains with a smile.

Death considers this, then nods. "Very well." Raising a hand, she snaps with her index finger and thumb.

A whoosh of colors, muffled sounds, and blurred images flash before his eyes and his hair blows out of his face with an invisible force like a gust of wind.

A second later, he's standing in the middle of a busy skating rink, flashing lights and Party Rock Anthem playing over the loud speakers with the distinct smell of pore-clogging greasy pizza. He looks down and notices his feet are encased by chunky roller skates, then notices that he's wearing jeans and white t-shirt with a color block jumper over top.

He's still somewhat transparent. It's not something he thinks he's going to get used to anytime soon.

When he looks back up, he meets Death's stare. She's standing in front of him, also wearing roller skates and a change of clothes. Instead of the intimidating black coat and black leather skirt, she's wearing bell bottoms and a white t-shirt with orange hems around her arms and collar. She looks almost uncomfortable in the noisy and dizzying atmosphere as she glances around at the people around them.

He doesn't even question their new outfits. They look straight out of a 70s or 80s fashion magazine, which suits the roller rink theme, so it makes sense.

Sort of.

Not really, because Peter doesn't see a need for the change in clothes, but it's whatever.

A little girl with two thin braids and neon braces barrels towards them on roller blades. Peter braces for impact, but she skates right through him like a ghost.

Like a _ghost_.

"Am I a ghost?" Peter asks, eyes squirreling.

She gives him a once-over before glancing at the people speeding past. "Call it what you please. Now, how do I move as the others are? Is there a specific technique?"

"I don't know, you just kinda . . ." He picks a foot up to kick off with his arms out for balance. Slowly, the wheels on his skate glide him across the smooth wooden floor.

He looks over his shoulder. Death purses her lips and, sticking her arms out like Peter did, tries to follow his lead. As soon as she picks a foot off the ground, her body tilts and her eyes go wide. Peter rushes to her side and she clamps a hand down on his arm to steady herself.

"Woah," she breathes, letting go of Peter's arm. A burning pain where they made contact lingers before fizzing out. "This is proving to be more difficult than I have previously expected."

He peers down where she touched him with a frown. How was she able to touch him? He's pretty sure most things go through ghosts, if that's what he is now. Maybe the rules are different for Death. Also, why did it feel like her hand was made of fire?

"Here, let's get closer to the wall," Peter suggests, guiding Death—more like pulling her—over to the crowded wall where the little kids and occasional clumsy teen are clinging on for dear life. "I wouldn't have thought that Death wouldn't know how to roller skate."

"I do not get out much," Death defends herself with a biting tone. "I have cosmic duties."

"Right," Peter says, then frowns. "Wait, do you have time to be doing this? Aren't people, like, dying every minute?"

"Approximately 120 people die every minute on your planet alone," Death replies, indignant. "I am simply . . . taking a day off, if you will."

She starts to shuffle forward on the skates. Peter follows at her side, except he's actually skating and not just shuffling. Confusion deepening, Peter asks, "Does that mean no one is dying?"

"Essentially."

Peter's eyes bug out of his head. Death, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered.

"Never mind that," Death dismisses, "how do I do what you're doing?"

Peter stumbles over his words. "I, uh, you just—it's all balance." He knows she changed the subject, but you can't just casually mention that death all around the universe just _stopped._ "So, like, if someone was getting murdered, they wouldn't die?"

"Indeed."

"So they're just getting stabbed over and over and over, but they can't die?"

"Affirmative."

"Say someone was bleeding out—"

"They would not die," Death confirms, voice annoyed, but a twinge of her lips gives away her amusement.

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. "That's intense. Aren't there, like, rules?"

"Yes," Death replies, not meeting Peter's curious gaze, "and I will be reprimanded for not following them, but I do believe I deserve a day off after fulfilling my duties for centuries with no break."

Peter nods. "I guess so." He looks down at Death's shuffling feet and says, "You want to try pushing off again? It's not that hard, you just need to keep your weight centered."

Death looks skeptical but nods. "Alright. Care to demonstrate once more?"

"Sure."

Peter rolls ahead a little, and when he slows to a stop, he slightly picks up his left foot before gently kicking off the ground, pushing himself forward.

When a kid speeds right at him, Peter lets out a little squeak and tries to twist out of the way. He ends up flailing his arms like a crazy bird and falling to the ground.

The kid goes right through him. Peter watches, eyes following the speedster, with surprise as he remembers that, oh yeah, he's a _ghost._

A laugh from behind snaps his attention to Death.

"That was quite amusing," Death comments airily. "Did you forget about your lack of tangibility?"

Peter rolls his eyes and pushes himself up to his feet. "I guess." A boy skates past, and Peter sticks his leg out. Unsurprisingly, the boy doesn't trip. Peter waves his arm through someone's head. "It's just—it's weird."

"Interacting with a mortal for so long is weird for me," Death says. She motions around the rink. "Being ignored is normal."

Peter's gaze softens. "It sounds kind of sad."

"It is not _sad_ ," Death omits, scoffing and crossing her arms. "It is my destiny."

That doesn't make it any less sad. Instead of challenging the cosmic entity, Peter sets his hands on his hips and asks, "So are you going to try again or not?"

"I shall attempt to skate," Death says, "but you are forbidden to find humor in my shortcomings."

Peter raises his hands innocently. "I promise I won't laugh." When Death's eyes narrow warily, he extends a hand, pinky out. "I _pinky_ promise."

Death's eyes flicker between Peter's face and his pinky. Finally, she gives in and holds hers up as well.

"I do not know how the validity of the promise is affected from interlocking pinkies, but alright."

"You get to break my pinky if I laugh," Peter explains. "Although, I guess you already killed me, so I don't know what else you could do."

"Banish you to hell?"

"Uhh . . . Breaking my pinky will do."

Death smirks, then looks down at her feet as she tries to skate. This time, she doesn't almost face plant, and she actually manages to skate a few feet in front of her. Her movements are stiff and jerky, but she's moving.

And smiling.

Peter skates beside her, elated to see the smile on her glossy black lips. Based on everything he knows about her, Death doesn't smile often; she normally doesn't have a reason to. She's constantly delivering people—some old, some young, some good, some evil—to the place they're going to spend the rest of eternity. She sees their loved ones' reactions, sees the ugly, and Peter imagines she had to disconnect from her job in order to do it for as long as she has been. She's probably so distanced from herself that she lost who she is at her core.

Seeing Death smile—that makes him smile, too, because it seems like she found a piece of herself in this moment.

At first he was doubting why Death decided to pick him to keep her company, and while he still holds some doubt, he's glad she chose him. Sure, it sucks that he's technically dead and that he had to see Tony and the rest of the team freak out—just thinking about that makes his chest constrict and his stomach pool with inexplicable guilt—but he is glad to help Death feel less alone.

Peter's a sociable person. Awkward as heck, yes, but sociable. He loves people and loves knowing that he's got people there to support him, such as Aunt May, Ned, and possibly Tony and the Avengers. Death essentially has no one. She can't talk to anyone unless they're dead. Peter's surprised she hasn't killed more people so she could have some company in her large, ominous library. He can't imagine being alone for centuries. No one to talk to when you're sad, no one to joke around with, no one to randomly burst into song with, no one to rant to, no one to comfort you or support you or pick up your pieces or—or _love_ you.

Suddenly, Peter is willing to be dead for longer than Death intended if it means that she won't have to feel so alone.

The longer they skate around in circles, the faster and more confident Death becomes. She picks up the speed to the point where Peter doesn't have to hold back so much. Then, Death starts going even faster.

"You're picking it up fast," Peter comments, picking up his speed.

Death laughs and looks back at him. "You were right, Peter Parker, this is not too hard. The concept it quite easy."

"Are you having fun?"

A strange look crosses Death's face like a shadow. Pulling herself from the deep thought moments later, she asks, "Is this what fun feels like? Like—airy, bubbly, and . . . light?"

Peter grins. "Yeah. How do you like it?"

"I do," Death murmurs, nodding to herself. "I am enjoying this light feeling in my chest."

"Then let's go faster!" Peter exclaims, bending slightly and pumping his arms as he skates off.

They race for a while. The amount of times they go around the rink is dizzying, but even the flashing lights and loud, pumping music can't turn their smiles upside down.

It isn't until they're at the point of literally knocking each other over to get ahead that Death decides she wants to do something else that's fun.

She and Peter sit at a sticky booth with pizza crusts and stains on the table. Peter didn't realize ghosts could lose their breath, yet here he is, chest rising and falling rapidly as he engulfs greedy gulps of air.

Death is only slightly out of breath. "What do you propose we do next?"

"I don't know," Peter breathes, shrugging. He thinks back at the things Death might enjoy, then the things he enjoys, which leads him to wondering what he'd be doing if he wasn't there. As soon as the present crosses his mind, his eyes widen. "Wait, what's going on right now? Like, with my—with my body?"

Death tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

"Like, is my body hooked up to a bunch of machines in the medbay? Are they trying to, to bring me back or something?" His heart stutters. "Wait, are they performing an autopsy and cutting me open?!"

"I would not allow that to happen," Death replies. Her demeanor is _way_ more casual than Peter's.

"How?"

"It is simple," she says, lifting a shoulder. "I shall temporarily kill them, too, so they cannot do harm to your mortal body. God and Eternity may not be very pleased about it, but they will have to deal."

Peter chokes on his spit. "You—you can't just kill them!"

"It's only temporary."

"Still!"

Death sighs. "There is no other way for me to prevent them from performing an autopsy on your body while your soul is in limbo."

Peter frowns, then his face lights up. "I can send them a message!"

Now it's Death's turn to look confused. "What?"

"I'm a _ghost_ ," Peter explains, sitting forward and gesticulating. "Ghosts haunt people, right? I can—I'm able to touch objects and stuff, so I can write a note telling them what's up."

Death's brow scrunches. "They may not believe it is truly you."

"Then I'll pick up a pencil and write it in front of them or something," he suggests. "I mean, it's worth a shot, right? I'd really rather you not kill my friends, even if it is temporary."

Death looks away, mulling it over, then nods. "Very well, then."

She snaps her fingers.


	2. Chapter 2

In a blink of an eye and a whoosh of colors, they teleport out of the skating rink and into an unfamiliar bedroom. Peter first takes note of another wardrobe change—this time into his regular civilian clothes of jeans and a nerdy t-shirt—then scans the room.

It's spacious with a large, flat-screen on one wall. On the adjacent wall is a window that expands from the floor to the ceiling, giving the room a glorious view of the sunset glistening over the city. 

His eyes stop on Mr. Stark's figure sitting at the end of the bed.

 _This must be his room,_ Peter deducts, glancing around at the clothes strewn over the furniture and the overflowing trash bin by the bed _. It's messier than I thought it would be._

He looks closer at Mr. Stark and feels his chest constrict as he notices his shoulders are curled in, his face in his hands.

Peter has never seen Mr. Stark so . . . so vulnerable before. The only emotions the man expresses around him, besides happiness, are anger and frustration. It feels wrong to be watching Mr. Stark in such a state without him knowing.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter whispers, tentatively stepping forward.

Death—also in her normal, dark outfit—watches with a calculating gaze as Peter sits beside the man. His hand reaches out just a little to offer comfort, but he places his hands back into his lap when he remembers 1) Mr. Stark doesn't like physical affection (or any displays of affection, really)) and 2) Peter can't touch people.

It sucks. Peter knows Mr. Stark is probably blaming himself for Peter's—temporary, but real—death, and there's nothing he can do about it.

Wait.

That's the whole reason why he's there, to talk to him. He can tell him he's fine.

Peter's eyes search the room for a notebook, or a pen and paper, or something.

"Do you see a pencil anywhere?" Peter asks, pushing himself off the bed to wander around the room. "Or something to write on?"

Death turns each direction, scanning, and pauses. Peter follows her line of sight and ends up staring at the large window.

It takes a second, then it clicks.

"Can I breathe on the glass?" he wonders aloud, stepping over to the window.

"You can try."

He leans closer and, opening his mouth, exhales. By some miracle, the glass fogs. Peter sends an excited look over his shoulder at Death.

"Get his attention! I'm gonna write him a note."

Peter turns back to the glass, fogs it up some more, and then starts writing with his finger. He stops mid-word when Tony makes a pained noise behind him.

Looking over, Peter spots Death standing innocently to the side with Mr. Stark rubbing the back of his head. The remote to the flat screen TV rests on the bedsheets behind him.

"Did you throw that at him?" Peter asks, incredulous.

Death shrugs. "It was more of a toss."

"Can we refrain from hurting him—and anyone, for that matter—please?"

Death narrows her eyes, then says, "Okay. Keep writing your note, I'll get him to look your way."

He nods and focuses back on the task at hand. He has to breathe against the glass some more to continue writing the message.

_MR. STARK, DO NOT FREAK OUT_

He starts to write out that it's _him_ , it's _Peter_ , but he freezes at the sound of Mr. Stark gasping.

Whipping around, Peter nearly comes face-to-face with Mr. Stark. Peter's heart shatters at the redness of his eyes. Being this close, he can see the exhaustion rooted deep into his features.

Mr. Stark is looking at the glass. His eyes are scanning it, flickering back and forth from beginning to end.

"Well?" Death prompts from beside him, crossing her arms. "Keep writing, tell him it's you."

Peter doesn't move. His eyes stay locked on Mr. Stark, who is slowly getting closer and closer to the glass.

"I . . . I think he knows."

Mr. Stark turns his head slightly. He's almost looking right at Peter, his eyes shifting in the empty space in front of him. In a broken, hesitant voice, he whispers, "Pete?"

"Yes," Peter chokes out, a grin making its way onto his face. "Yes, Mr. Stark, it's me, I'm okay!"

"He can't hear you, keep writing the note," Death urges.

Peter doesn't hesitate. He wipes the perspiration away, breathes on the glass some more, then writes a new message. Mr. Stark's glossy eyes follow every stroke.

_THIS IS PETER. DO NOT SLICE MY BODY OPEN._

Mr. Stark lets out a choked laugh that sounds like a half-sob. "Got it," he says, voice thick. "No slicing or dicing."

Peter's shoulders relax. He wipes that message away and starts new.

_THANKS. COMING BACK SOON._

"Coming back?" Mr. Stark repeats under his breath. He looks around the room, eyes filled with something almost comparable to insanity. "What—where—what's going _on_? Where are you, kid?"

_IM OKAY, JUST LEAVE MY BODY ALONE PLS._

He wipes that away after Mr. Stark reads it and writes more.

_I WILL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING LATER_

Mr. Stark purses his lips, then nods. "Okay. Okay, fine, just—stay safe, kid. Aunt hottie misses you, so come back soon." There's a beat. Then, in a whisper, he adds, "Please."

Death's head cocks to the side. White, vacant eyes shifting between Peter and Mr. Stark, she observes, "He cares for you."

Peter glances at her before returning his attention to Tony. A slight blush heats his cheeks. "I-I mean, yeah, I'm his responsibility."

"You're like a son to him."

"Son is a strong word," Peter argues. Voice lowering, he murmurs, "He doesn't feel that way towards me." 

Why would he? Why would Tony Stark—billionaire, genius, Iron Man—think of Peter Parker—some poor kid from Queens who happens to have sticky fingers and usually just gets in the way during missions—as a son?

It wouldn't make sense.

And besides, Peter knows that Mr. Stark doesn't see him as so. Sure, he claps his shoulder and tells him he did a good job, but he also brushes him off, makes sure he knows he's still a rookie, reprimands him for the slightest mistakes during missions, and treats him like a little kid. _You're not ready for that yet_ , he said about a drug trafficking ring that turned out to be run by some terrorist group Peter went after once. _You're a kid, so act like one_ , he said when Peter skipped prom to patrol.

Tony is _nice_ to him, but he isn't _fatherly_ to him. 

There is a big difference.

Before Death can argue further, Peter fogs up the glass to write one last message before they leave again.

_SORRY ABOUT ALL THIS. GTG NOW._

He doesn't wait for Mr. Stark's response. Something tells him that if he stays for any longer, he won't want to leave. Instead, he turns to Death and says, "Okay, we can go."

Another snap, another whoosh of colors and air, and they're suddenly standing in the middle of . . . a living room?

No, this is _Ned's_ living room.

What the heck are they doing here?

Peter looks down at himself. Yet again, he is wearing something else: pajamas, this time. He's in comfy sweatpants with a loose-fitted t-shirt and Ewok slippers.

Like Peter, Death is wearing pajamas, too. Hers are pink fuzzy pants and a loose black long-sleeve shirt with a white skull on it. She flops back on the couch behind them and closes her eyes, letting out a relaxed sigh.

After a beat, one of her eyes pop open, then the other one follows as she stares at Peter expectantly. "Are you going to sit down, Peter Parker?"

He glances around. "What are we doing at Ned's house?"

"You said you two played video games together," Death replies. "I would very much like to try it out, seeing as it brings you entertainment."

"Right . . ." Peter frowns. "But we'll get caught moving stuff around, and someone will hear the game."

Death grins. "The house is empty."

"Really?" Fear spikes his chest. "Wait, that doesn't mean you killed them too, right? Because I thought we—"

"I did not kill them, you have no reason to fret," Death assures. "The Leeds family just left to visit your aunt, we have at least an hour before they return."

Skeptical, Peter nods. "Okay." They probably heard of Peter's death, then. He hopes Ned isn't too upset, and that he'll forgive him when Peter explains everything.

Death leans forward on her knees. "So, how do we play video games?"

A smile quirks his lips. He can worry about Ned later. "I'll get it set up. I think you'll love Mario Kart."

And, as expected, Death does. Honestly, who _doesn't_ like Mario Kart? Peter picks his usual character—Luigi—and Death picks Bowser. At first, Death can't steer the race car in the right direction. Peter has to stifle his laughter at her clear frustration.

Once she gets it, though, she gets _really_ competitive. It awakens Peter's inner competitor and he starts to get into the game just as much as she is. She nudges his elbow a few times to throw him off.

"Hey!" Peter yelps, frantically getting his race car back on track. "That's cheating!"

"It is merely weakening the competition."

Peter starts to nudge her elbow, too, when she tries to turn. Their banter and laughter carries through the empty house.

It must look odd: two floating controllers and the game playing on the TV. Peter trusts that Death will make sure they leave before Ned and his family get back.

During their fifth rematch—Peter keeps winning and Death is adamant on changing that—Peter's mind starts to wander to Ned again, then to the Avengers and Aunt May.

Death kidnapped him to have fun, and they're all grieving him while he's away playing games and roller skating. It makes a pool of guilt grow in his stomach as he loses focus on the video game.

The thing is, Peter _is_ having fun. Not only is he glad that he's helping Death, he's also enjoying hanging out with her. She's cool, and despite her dark aura, she's actually somewhat nice. She doesn't deserve to spend eternity all alone.

But he doesn't like how, in order to be happy, his friends and family have to grieve him. If anyone knows grief, it's Peter. And he knows it _sucks_. When his parents died, he was young and confused and wondered when they'd come back. He went to bed disappointed every night for a long two years when it was Uncle Ben and Aunt May who tucked him in and read him bedtime stories. Even now, twelve years later, Peter feels his parents' absence. He can't remember his mother's voice, his father's laugh, the smell of his mother's perfume, or either of their faces. There's a hollow feeling in his chest whenever Mother's Day and Father's Day pass.

Peter felt real, painful grief when Uncle Ben died. He had his powers at this point, so he locked himself in his room to isolate himself from Aunt May and Ned and _everything._ He worked on a suit and web-shooters and web solution. Then, the pain and grief drove him to search the streets for other people to save from the pain he went through.

Losing someone is _hard_.

Hopefully, Mr. Stark will tell Aunt May that Peter's okay and will come back soon. She has lost a lot already, and if Peter actually died, then she'd have no one left. He regrets not telling Mr. Stark to assure his aunt that he'd be okay first. That should have been the first thing he said.

"You are unhappy."

Death's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Blinking, he realizes that the game is paused and Death is turned to him with a furrowed brow.

"I'm not unhappy," Peter says, sighing. "I'm just . . . thinking."

"About what?"

Peter sets his controller down and runs a hand through his hair. "About my friends and family. I know how it feels to, to lose someone, and I don't want them to go through that."

He looks at Death, knowing that she doesn't understand loss but hoping that she at least gets what he's trying to say.

Death nods. "Yes, I suppose you are familiar with loss, for it has taken claim of multiple family members in your young life." She pauses. "I have a proposition."

Peter turns to face her more, crossing his legs in a pretzel. "What is it?"

"Although we have not spent more than a full earth day together, you have granted me great enjoyment and company. In return, I am offering to take you to the afterlife of one of your loved ones who have passed."

Peter straightens. "What, like, to visit them?" His heart races. He could . . . he could see Uncle Be again? Or maybe his parents?

He doesn't remember their faces or voices or scents or mannerisms, but this is his chance. He could apologize to Uncle Ben, hug him, inhale the smell of pine on his flannel as they hug. He could explain why he was moody and acted out and angry that day he ran out, then apologize for not doing anything to save him from the gunman. He could tell his parents about everything they've missed out on: Academic Decathlon tournaments, ruined Homecomings, meeting his childhood heroes and working alongside them, all the A+'s, all the honor rolls. He could thank them, and Uncle Ben, for loving him.

But it just doesn't feel _right_. It's not the natural order of things.

"I don't know," Peter murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, I really appreciate the offer, Ms. Death, but it wouldn't feel right. They're—they're dead, I've already mourned them. I still miss them, but that's . . . that's just life, you know?" He lifts his gaze to meet Death's. "When someone dies, you can't see them again. That's how it is supposed to be."

Death's eyes trail over Peter's face. It feels like she's holding him under a microscope. Finally, after a few silent moments, she leans back against the couch cushion and purses her lips. "You are a very respectable individual. Eternity would like you."

Peter's heart flutters a little at that. He's never met Eternity, but being liked by him sounds like a good thing.

"I know you have expressed your concerns about the toll of grief on your loved ones, so I shall not keep you from them much longer," Death says. "However, there is one more thing I would like you to help me with before you return." 

Peter sits forward, excited for both going back to his tangible body and for hanging out with Death some more. "Yeah, sure. What's up?"

Death's pale face flushes and she looks away. "It is quite embarrassing, but I have no one else to confide in." She looks back up at Peter, studies him for a moment—probably contemplating whether or not to continue—and then lifts her hand between them with her pinky extended. "Pinky promise me you will not laugh."

Peter interlocks his pinky with hers. There's another slight burning sensation at the contact, but it starts to fade as soon as they let go.

When they both drop their hands, Peter's to his lap and Death's to her side, she confesses, "I have developed what humans call a crush."

Peter's eyes widen and he leans in slightly. "On who?"

"I'm sure you know of him." Death pauses. Reluctant, she says, "He is called Loki."

Peter's mind malfunctions. "He—You—What?!" he sputters, eyes widening even further. "Loki Odinson, Thor's brother? The one who tried to invade New York in 2012? The one who stole the Tesseract? _That_ Loki?"

"Yes, _that_ Loki," Death sighs. She runs a hand through her choppy black hair. "I knew you would not approve for he has shown to be twisted in his ways and to cause mischief, but he has been one of the only individuals whom I have encountered. He has not come close enough to actually meeting me, but he has been close on numerous occasions."

Peter frowns. "Yeah, but why do you like him? Not that I'm judging you, I swear I'm not, I just don't understand."

"I am afraid I do not understand it, either," Death admits with a small pout. "I have never felt this way before towards anyone else. He just . . . He's misunderstood, I believe, just like me."

Peter nods, then a slow smirk makes its way on his lips. "He has pretty nice hair, too."

"He does, indeed."

"And nice eyes," Peter continues, amusement glinting in his eyes. "Green is a pretty color."

Death hums in agreement. "Green is a nice color, yes." She stares at the wall, evidentially picturing Loki, but then snaps her eyes to Peter.

Peter looks close to laughter. If he hadn't pinky promised not to laugh, then he would be. He's fairly confident Death would literally snap both of his pinkies in half if he breaks it, though.

"Are you making fun of me?" she asks, eyes narrowed. Her tone wavers between intimidating and playful.

"No, no," Peter assures, grinning, "I'm just teasing. it's something friends do all the time, don't worry."

Death's wary gaze lingers before she tears it away, looking down at her nails. Her forehead wrinkles as she falls deep into thought. At first Peter worries he said the wrong thing or made her upset, but then she asks, "You consider me a friend?"

"Yeah, sure," Peter chirps. "I mean, we've hung out all day, so." He shrugs. "You seem pretty chill, and you're fun to hang out with."

It's true. Peter never thought he'd be able to say that he's friends with Death, but look where he is now: playing Mario Kart with Death herself.

A smile touches her lips. "I am honored to be considered your friend, Peter Parker."

Peter reflects her smile. "I'm glad you chose me to hang out with you today."

Yes, it kind of sucks that he's dead, but who else can say that they've hung out with Death? And who else can say that they've befriended Death? Man, Ned is going to freak when Peter gets back and tells him everything.

After cleaning up the video game and setting everything to how it was before, Peter and Death leave the Leeds residence and stroll down the road as Death recounts her semi-encounters with Loki. The contrast between her pale skin and the blush on her cheeks is like blood on snow. It's charming, really, how deep her infatuation with Loki is without ever speaking to him. It reminds him of his crush on Liz Allan last year.

Peter tells Death about his old crush, which spirals into a story of homecoming night when he was crushed by a building and then clung onto the side of a airplane while it crashed into the sandy beach.

While they walk and talk, cars zoom through them. Peter still flinches or holds his breath every time, but at least he doesn't fall flat on his bottom again.

The sun set a while ago, around the time Peter had visited Tony, so Peter would guess it's around nine or ten o'clock when Death stops walking in the middle of the street and turns to Peter.

"I believe it is time for you to return," Death says, although she sounds disappointed. "I appreciate your company and your willingness to help me."

Peter shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "It's no problem, I'm glad I could help make you feel less lonely." Jokingly, he adds, "A heads-up before you killed me probably would have been nice, but yeah, it was fun."

Death chuckles. "Yes, it was fun." Her smile fades. "I shall miss you, Peter Parker."

"You can just call me Peter, if you want."

That makes Death's smile return. "Then I shall miss you, Peter. Thank you for your kindness and entrainment."

Peter watches as Death lifts her hand to snap her fingers. As soon as she does, they're whisked off with the colors and the invisible force blowing through his clothes and hair.

Next thing he knows, Peter's standing in the dimly lit library of Death's home in his suit sans mask again. This time, however, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and alarms blare in his head so loud it makes his head throb.

Peter whips his head around to find the source of the danger, but all he sees are the endless bookshelves.

Death casts Peter a curious look. "What is it?"

"Something's wrong," Peter mutters, frowning. "Someone's . . . I think someone's here."

Death's brow furrows. She turns, eyes searching the space, but then she stills beside Peter. When he notices her tense from the corner of his eye, he follows her line of sight.

From behind a bookshelf a few yards away, a dark, ominous figure emerges. Around them are moving wisps of darkness, almost like black smoke. It cradles and twists and swirls around in the air around the figure as they slowly walk out from behind the shelf. The more they emerge, the more intense the alarms and throbbing in Peter's head gets.

The tall figure has fully stepped out and stands before Peter and Death. Peter winces at the severity of his headache and has to blink back dark spots in his vision that threaten to make him faint from the pain.

It is a man, but Peter can't make out any of his features, not even his eyes. Even the space around him where he stands is darkened by his presence. Peter doesn't have to see his eyes to know that he's staring straight into his soul.

Standing at his left, Death crosses her arms and says, "Oblivion."

The figure's head tilts. In a deep, thunderous voice, he replies, "Sister."  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Death steps forward with an arm extended as if to shield Peter. Her face remains casual, but her stance is tense and alert, like she's preparing for a fight.

Peter looks between Death and Oblivion. He remembers Death mentioning a brother—Eternity—but she never said anything about another sibling. Death is, obviously, the entity who oversees death, and Eternity oversees the opposite, which is life. So what does Oblivion do? The way Death keeps shifting her gaze from Peter standing slightly behind her to Oblivion leads him to believe it isn't anything good. And, if his spider-senses are anything to go off of, Oblivion isn't here to just pay a friendly visit.

Inconspicuously, Peter checks his web-shooters. His left web-shooter is at 80% capacity and his right is at 65%. While not ideal, it's better than empty.

Death's stance shifts slightly. Peter looks up, noticing her hands clenching into fists as she grounds out, "What are you doing here?"

Oblivion steps forward. Death subtly nudges Peter to take a step back.

"You know why," Oblivion replies. His voice is thunder and a gravel road. "What happened to us, Death? We used to be a team; us against Infinity and Eternity. We can—"

"You can leave," Death interjects sharply. "I told you, you are not welcome here anymore."

Peter feels Oblivion turning his gaze upon him. He tries not to cower, but he can't help but shrink back.

"What are you doing with this mortal's soul?" Oblivion questions with underlying suspicion.

Death's stare hardens. "We shall talk later, I have a task I must complete."

"What task . . . ?" Oblivion's voice trails off, then a belittling laugh reverberates from his chest. "You _actually_ did it, Death. You _actually_ killed a mortal and brought them here." The laughter dies down. In a sneer, he spits, "Pathetic."

"Death's not pathetic," Peter counters. Death shoots him a warning glare, but he keeps his shoulders squared and jaw clenched. "And she told you to leave, so—"

"That is enough Peter," she hisses, eyes sharp as steak knives. Reluctantly, Peter keeps his mouth shut. Death turns back to Oblivion. "I am bringing him to Eternity to bring his soul back to his body, it was only a temporary arrangement. I have everything handled."

Oblivion laughs again, the malicious undertone sending shivers down Peter's spine. "Oh, sister. I don't think you do."

A sharp pain explodes in Peter's head a split second before a wispy tendril shoots out from Oblivion and wraps around his neck. Peter lets out a choked noise as he's yanked away from Death's side and aggressively dragged to Oblivion's.

"NO!" Death shouts, reaching out but unable to grab him in time before he's no longer in reach. 

He kicks and tries to grab the secure hold around his neck, but somehow his fingers go right through it. It tightens around his neck and cuts off his air supply, lifting him higher. His toes barely brush the ground.

Lungs burning and head spinning, Peter's wide eyes snap to Death for help.

Her white eyes are enveloped by pitch black. Peter feels a tug, and suddenly the hold on his neck puffs away and he's collapsing to the floor.

Chest heaving and gasping for air, Peter tries to scramble away from Oblivion, only for his ankle to be grabbed by another tendril. It lifts him up into the air upside down. Peter tries to grab ahold of something— _anything_ —to resist, but his fingernails only scrape the smooth floor until the tendril holds him up high enough that he cannot reach the ground with his arms locked straight. 

Still catching his breath, Peter's eyes flicker between Death and Oblivion—who, much to his horror, is literally only two feet to his right.

Death's eyes remain endless holes of darkness. Standing with one foot set in front of the other and her arms poised for battle, she growls, "Let him go." 

"I don't think I will," Oblivion taunts, flicking his wrist. Another tendril shoots out from the smokey wisps around him and wraps around Peter's throat. His heart beats fast in his chest, but the tendril only applies an uncomfortable amount of pressure, not enough to completely cut off his oxygen. ". . . Not, less, you have changed your mind?"

Peter's head spins. He has no idea what's going on, but he realizes with a churning stomach that he is caught in the middle of whatever it is.

Death snarls, "I will never join you, not when what you want is a universe-wide wave of mass destruction."

"What I _want_ is the power and control god posses but refuses to use. The potential of that power is unmatched, and our father is wasting it." 

"You wouldn't be able to wield such power," Death says. She doesn't meet Peter's fearful eyes and keeps her deadly gaze upon her brother. "Everything would go to chaos and ruin."

"Everything _is_ chaos and ruin!" Oblivion barks, the tendril around Peter's neck tightening. He gasps for air but comes up short. "You should know this first-hand, you are the one who has seen the tragic and horrific deaths that occur every single second of your immortal life."

"I also see the merciful deaths," Death counters, voice hard despite the pleading look in her dark eyes. "The ones where people are surrounded by their loved ones. To die isn't necessarily to perish."

Oblivion sighs. It's deep, disappointed, and exhausted. "You have given me no choice, sister."

The mixture of low oxygen and the blood rushing to Peter's head makes his vision spotty and his head spin. He tries focusing on Death, to try to gauge whether or not she has a plan, but she doesn't move. Behind the angry and cold exterior, she almost seems . . . scared.

Fear shoots down Peter's spine. If Death is scared, then he should definitely be terrified.

It's obvious she doesn't have a plan by the way she keeps shifting her weight between feet and her lack of action. Something is holding her back.

With the lack of oxygen, Peter can't really focus enough to figure out what it is, but he is able to gather enough brainpower to realize that he needs to get himself out of this before he passes out. And, judging by the dots spotting his vision, he can't last much longer with the tendril wrapped around his neck.

"If you refuse to join me in my efforts to dispel our other siblings and overthrow god, then I will take this mortal and—"

With a flick of his wrist, Peter cuts Oblivion off and shoots a web that sticks to his leg. Before the entity can even comprehend what's happening, Peter yanks his arm back and sends him flying into the bookshelves.

Instead of disappearing like he had expected, the tendril around his neck tightens even more with Oblivion knocked down. Peter can't even make any noise anymore with how tight the iron-like grip is. 

Death doesn't hesitate to rush forward and wave her hands around, dispelling the tendril into smoke that disappears into the air. Peter lands on his back, hard, and sucks in a painful gulp of air that gets caught in his throat.

Coughing and holding his throat, Peter pushes himself up to a knee. "That _sucked_."

Death makes a fighting stance in front of him as Oblivion stands. Without looking over her shoulder, she orders in a low voice, "I'm sending you to Eternity. Tell him what's going on and to send you back to your physical body."

"What about you?" he asks, stumbling to his feet and rubbing his throat with a wince.

"Do not worry about me," she assures.

Peter doesn't have any warning before she snaps her fingers and he's thrown into the tunnel of colors and shapes.

One second he's in Death's realm, and the next, he's standing on the shore of a beach. The waves crash against the shore like soft cymbals before getting sucked back into the sea, then rising and crashing again. A spray of cool salt water hits his face.

Squinting against the bright sun, Peter looks up, wondering where the heck is he now.

"Can I help you?"

Peter spins around, cursing his spider-sense for not picking up another presence. He supposes that must mean they don't pose a threat, though, so at least he's got that going for him.

His eyes land on a figure standing by a tall tree similar to a palm tree but much thicker and taller with bright orange leaves. The figure himself is cloaked with a blue cape, the same shade as the skin of his angular face. But his body . . . well, it's not really _there_. His head seems to float above a human-like figure that isn't very human-like at all. Instead of skin or clothes under the cloak draped over his shoulders, the man's body is like staring into space. It's a glinting celestial body of planets, stars, galaxies, and nebulas. It looks as if Peter can reach his hand in and grab a planet and throw it around like a baseball.

Swallowing and wincing from the soreness of his throat, Peter asks, "A-Are you Eternity?"

The man nods. His eyes—black with yellow pupils—give Peter a once-over. "How did you come here?"

"Death sent me," Peter explains, stepping forward with urgency. "Oblivion, he's—he's probably attacking her right now."

Eternity's eyes widen. "Oblivion?"

"He tried to get me, but I got away," Peter says, breathless. "I-I don't, I don't really know what's going on, but it sounds like he's trying to make Death team up with him to overthrow god."

Eternity's jaw goes slack, then he clamps his mouth shut and presses his lips in a hard line. "I knew he was up to something." Eternity walks forward, brushing past Peter, then pauses and looks back at him. Brow furrowed, he asks, "What part do you have in this?"

Peter stumbles over his words. "Oh, uh, I was hanging out with Death, and then Oblivion showed up."

He knows should mention that he needs to go home, he's been dead for long enough, but Death—as well as the fate of the universe, it sounds like—are in danger.

"But I can help," Peter adds, eyes flickering to Eternity's. "On earth, I'm an Avenger, we—"

"I am aware of the Avengers," Eternity interrupts. His voice is deep, but far less heinous than Oblivion's. "And I am aware of Spider-Man."

Peter's face flushes and he looks away. "O-Oh, okay."

"I am also aware that you are not supposed to be dead," Eternity continues. Peter's gaze snaps to him. "However, I must first deal with Oblivion for that situation has higher stakes, but I cannot leave you here alone."

His heart does a little jump. "You're bringing me with you to help?"

"No," Eternity immediately shuts down, making Peter's excitement falter. "I'm bringing you along to watch over your soul before I can deliver you back to your physical form. There is no repairing a damaged soul, so you must stay out of harm's way. Oblivion's power far outweighs your own."

Gulping, Peter nods. "Right, of course. I'll stay out of the way." And, yeah, Peter has every intention to obey the entity, but he knows deep down that if something went amiss he'd jump in without a second thought.

Eternity nods, too. "Good."

Like Death, Eternity only has to snap his fingers to transport them back to Death's realm.

Peter's head blares with sirens that cause him to sway upon reentrance. Catching his balance on an overturned desk, he squeezes his eyes shut tight.

Wait.

Overturned?

His eyes shoot open.

The library, once peacefully silent and in-tact, has bookshelves knocked over like dominos and shredded books and papers scattered all over the place. The dim light from before is flickering like a strobe.

In the middle of the chaos are Death and Oblivion. They're standing at opposite sides, Oblivion's dark tendrils trying to grab onto her as she holds them back with her hands grasping onto them. A roar rips through her throat as she pushes against his power with all her strength.

"Help her," Peter whispers, turning to Eternity. Panic seeps into his voice as he repeats, "Help her! She can't last any longer!"

Eternity's jaw clenches. Rising from the overturned bookshelf they appeared behind, he flies straight towards the pair and grabs the tendrils pushing towards Death. Oblivion lets out a pained noise and falls to one knee at the contact. The tendrils fall limp. Smoke appears where Eternity is holding on before they disappear midair.

"Thank you for coming so soon, brother," Death says, chest rising and falling erratically as she catches her breath.

Eternity squares his shoulders with Oblivion as the latter rises to his feet. "You should have sent for me sooner."

Oblivion tries to shoot a ball of thick, smoke-like darkness at the pair, but Death throws a reflector at it that knocks it aside.

Straight at Peter.

Peter yelps and ducks, narrowly missing getting struck directly in the face with the ricochet of Oblivion's attack. The constant blaring of his spider-senses isn't helping his reflexes at all.

All three heads snap to the fallen bookshelf Peter's knelt behind. Slowly, he rises, first poking his head up to peer at the battle only to find that everyone is watching him.

Death turns on Eternity with fury. "You _brought him_?"

"I couldn't possibly leave him in my realm alone."

"You were supposed to bring him back to life!"

"Guys!" Peter shouts above their bickering, causing both of them to look towards him. He points at Oblivion.

Their eyes follow his finger. As they're turning, Oblivion hurtles a large ball of darkness at them.

Everything moves in slow-motion. Death and Eternity are still turning, they don't see the danger they're in. By the time they do see it, it'll be too late to move. The realization settles at the pit of his stomach like rocks.

But Peter sees it. The ball—a wispy, dark, moving missile—sails through the air straight at their heads. Oblivion's arms are still held out straight, fingers extended.

Peter doesn't hesitate to haphazardly aim his wrists at Death and Eternity. Pressing down on the web-shooter triggers in his palms, two thin strings of web cut through the space at a much faster rate than Oblivion's ball of darkness.

As soon as both webs attach to their targets and Peter yanks them out of the way, time resets and everything resumes at its regular fast-pace.

Eternity hits the ground—hard—while Death manages to catch herself on her hands and knees. Behind them, the ball of dark energy hits a pile of bookshelves. Instead of just exploding them like Peter expects, the bookshelf disappears before his eyes.

His heart clenches in his chest.

Alrighty then. He definitely doesn't want to get hit by one of those. Where did it even go?

 _Doesn't matter_ , he berates himself, tuning back into the fight. _You probably don't want to know any_ —"Woah!"

His hand shoots to grab the one around his throat again, eyes darting to the faceless dark figure that somehow managed to sneak up on him.

"Do you—" Peter gasps around the pressure being applied to his throat. "—have a thing for ch-choking or something?"

Oblivion flings him aside like a nuisance. He lets out a shriek as he soars through the air towards the glass guarding the endless void outside. Like a fly on a windshield, he splats into the window, his face smushed and body aching. He really wishes being a ghost would mean he couldn't feel pain, but alas, everything hurts just as bad as if he were alive.

Scraping himself off the floor, Peter winces and holds his shoulder. "I swear I wasn't kink-shaming," he mutters, rolling his shoulder.

Peter freezes when he looks up.

Oblivion tosses Eternity like a rag doll against the window. Unlike Peter, the entity smashes right through. His unconscious body is sucked into the void within seconds.

"Eternity!" Death screams, lunging towards the broken window, but Oblivion catches her by the arm and shoved her to the floor with a force that goes beyond his own enhanced strength.

Oblivion's tendrils slither towards Death like faceless snakes inspecting fresh prey. In a snap, they shoot forward and secure her to the floor by pinning her torso, legs, neck, and arms down. A lone tendril slowly hovers above her face. It moves around her head, grazing over her defined cheekbones and her sharp chin, before splintering into two and slithering up her nostrils.

The sirens in Peter's brain reach volumes he's never experienced. Head pounding, Peter tries to think of his next move, but all logic is thrown out the window when he sees Death's blue-ish tinted pale skin start to turn an ashy gray and her eyes roll back into her head because he's _killing_ her. 

But he can't move. His feet are rooted to the floor, his lungs refusing to expand, his spine shock-still.

A crash from behind startles Peter from his fear-induced stupor. Eternity flies in—unsteady and sluggish—but before Peter's hopes can lift, the entity collapses to the ground.

Oblivion flicks his wrist to shoot a ball of dark energy at Eternity's weak form.

 _No_ , Peter thinks, watching with horror. He can't make Eternity disappear like the bookshelf, they need him to beat Oblivion!

The sirens in Peter's head must be blocking out all common sense and self-preservation, because the next thing he knows, he's throwing himself in front of Eternity, straight into the line of fire.

He doesn't even feel the impact of the energy. He doesn't feel anything.

He just . . .

 _Stops_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well i was originally going to write four chapters of this fic and call it a short story and move on but mid-chapter i decided to set it up for a longer fic and you know what i'm not even mad just slightly disappointed for caving and writing another full fic so soon but oh well hopefully burnout/block doesn't come for me lmao
> 
> also idk if this story is confusing. i took some characters from the comics and kinda put my own spin on them. hopefully y’all aren’t too lost. if so, feel free to ask any questions & i’ll either reply to your comment directly or go back in and clarify anything that isn’t too clear in the story. 
> 
> lots of love xx


	4. Chapter 4

Distant groans of vibrations float through consciousness. It fades out, comes back, fades, and then returns with a higher intensity. The vibrations shape into indistinct sounds. The sounds alight a nerve in his brain, his mind pulsing with information and sensations.

The sounds string together in a symphony of voices. No. One single voice, overlapping itself.

The repeated voice—a deep, resonating sound—flows through his ear and travels down his ear canal before drumming against his eardrum.

It repeats.

Finally, like his ears have been unclogged, the voice stops overlapping and starts to focus into a single sentence before repeating again.

**"Can you hear me?"**

A seed of thought plants in his brain, and then travels to his diaphragm. The diaphragm contracts and pushes air into his lungs and out to his larynx, making his vocal chords vibrate. Like clay, he molds the sound in his mouth and lifts his heavy tongue.

"Yes."

The word lingers in space before the sound waves smooth over.

**"Do you know who you are?"**

He reaches into the back files of his mind. Nothing comes up. There's no memories, no recollection, no remnants of any life. He digs further, only to be pushed back, like he hit the bottom.

He tries again. Gets pushed back.

 **"That is okay, do not grow frustrated,"** the voice says, soothing him. **"We believe you will know soon, it is only a matter of time."**

"Who are you?"

**"I am Eternity. I am accompanied by Infinity."**

A second voice, this one slightly lighter and warmer, chimes in _,_ **"Greetings, Parker. It is an honor to speak with you. Our sister Death would join us, but she is currently in her realm to recover from the battle."**

"A battle?"

 **"Yes, a battle that was fought three Earth months ago. Death has been recovering ever since,"** Infinity's disembodied voice replies.

Eternity adds, **"She has physically healed a while ago, but the emotional toll the events of the battle . . . That is not so easily healed. However, I have a feeling once she discovers that you have returned, she will finally emerge from her pit of despair."**

"I don't understand. Where did I go?"

 **"It is more complicated than simply leaving a physical place,"** Eternity explains. **"You do not remember this yet, but you sacrificed your soul for me. Our twisted brother called Oblivion struck you with his powers to wipe you out of existence."**

"Then how am I communicating with you? What's going on?"

 **"It is . . . complicated,"** Infinity says. **"All remnants of you have been wiped from this universe, including all memories of you. Being cosmic entities means that only we were able to remember you, so we brought our memories of you to god in an attempt to bring your soul back. Unfortunately, we were unable to reverse all affects, but we were able to salvage enough memories to resurrect your soul and rebuild your body."**

All this information pours into is brain at a rate too fast to process. It gets stuck in the gears of his mind like sticky gum. "Where is Oblivion? Did he get away?"

Eternity's deep voice answers. **"After your sacrifice, Death and I fought back against Oblivion. Death seemed to be able to hold her own, so I went to Infinity for reinforcements. Thanks to your selfless act, we were able to work three-against-one and overpower our fallen brother. He has since been banished to a fate worse than hell."**

Before he can ask another question, Infinity prompts, **"Do you recall who you are now?"**

Pressure builds in the front of his mind. A flash of . . . something. Light? A flicker of a scene, and an echo of an unintelligible voice. "Something's coming back, but I can't remember . . . W-What is my name?"

**"Peter Benjamin Parker."**

_"Peter Benjamin Parker, you open this door right now!"_

The voice—so familiar, but the name and face out of reach—cuts through his mind like a firecracker.

**"You are a human living in the Earth city of New York."**

_"New York. Queens. It's a rough borough, but hey, it's home."_

_"Who are you talking to?"_

**"You are Spider-Man."**

The dam collapses.

**•**

Peter bolts upright, inhaling sharply. He squints against the bright sun and lifts a hand to shield his eyes. Blinking, his mind reels as he tries to process . . . whatever just happened. _Everything_ that happened in the last twenty four hours, really.

Sunshine . . . Outside. He's outside. Where is he?

Wait.

He lowers his arm and tilts his head as he turns over his hands, inspecting them. He's solid again He's in his body, wearing his suit and mask. Clenching his fists, he looks up and scans his surroundings. 

He's sitting in a large field of grass surrounded by tall buildings. Birds chirp as they fly overhead. Peter's eyes follow them, then land on a group of kids throwing around a frisbee. There's a couple sitting on a picnic blanket to their left. They're talking, smiles lighting up their features, and one of them throws back her head to laugh.

The background noise of honking cars and echoing construction connect the dots in his mind.

Central Park.

His hands drop to the ground beside him and tug at the grass.

His head is pounding with the events of the day before. No, what had Eternity—or was it Infinity—that said? Three months ago?

He squeezes his eyes shut. It's impossible. How has three months passed without him even knowing? How has he just _not existed_ for three whole months? One minute he was in a debrief with the Avengers, the next he was having a play date with Death, then he just blipped out of existence.

Is this what it feels like to wake up with a hangover?

He can't stay here, he decides, looking around at the people carrying on with their lives, acting like nothing is out of the ordinary because—for them—it is just another ordinary day. For Peter, he was just brought back into existence. He still can't comprehend what that even _means_.

So, yeah, he can't stay here, pretending like everything is peachy. But where does he go?

A pit forms in his stomach. He can't go to Aunt May, Ned, Mr. Stark, Happy—anybody. They don't know who he is. To them, they never knew him.

He's completely, utterly alone.

His peach-fuzz neck hairs prickle a second before one of the kids runs straight into him trying to catch the frisbee that flies way over their heads.

Peter's back hits the ground and he lets out a huff as the kid scrambles back to his feet.

"Sorry, didn't see you there!" he chirps. Peter sits up and watches him lean over to grab the frisbee that has landed on the grass a few feet behind them before jogging back to meet up with his friends. When the kid throws it back, it flies sideways and two kids go chasing after it.

"It's fine," he murmurs, despite being out of earshot.

His brow furrows. Well, if he can't stay here, and he can't go to any of his friends or family, then where does he go? What now?

What's even the point of existing again if he doesn't exist to anyone important to him?

Peter pushes himself up to his feet and wipes the dirt from his suit. A few people offer him odd glances—probably because of his suit—but otherwise don't pay him much attention. It's better than being a ghost, though. As fun and weird as that experience had been, Peter would much rather be alive and tangible.

Too bad he can't relay his story to anyone without sounding like a lunatic.

Walking out of the center of the park and towards the streets, Peter checks his web-shooters. Left: 72%. Right: 45%. He should probably go make some more after he figures out how to get his hands on the supplies.

The thought hits him hard in the stomach.

He can't even go to school anymore. They'd have no records of him ever being a student here. His lab partner for chemistry would be with someone else, and his locker would be vacant.

He never thought he'd miss the idea of going to school so much until now.

Heck, he'd be willing to endure Flash's mediocre bullying if it meant he could go to school with his friends.

Some preteens snicker as they pass Peter in the street. He doesn't really mind; there are definitely weirder things on the streets of Manhattan than a guy dressed up in fancy spandex.

"Where to go, where to go," he mumbles under his breath.

He scans the alleys and abandoned buildings he passes, looking for some place to hang out for a night with literally no money to his name. Or a name that has anything tied to it, really.

"Hey, Karen?" Peter tries as he crosses into the north side of Brooklyn. "You there?"

Nothing.

He doesn't know why he's disappointed; it's not like he expected her to respond to him. Tony made her for him, she probably doesn't even exist anymore. At least he gets to keep the suit, though.

By the time the sun gets low and the sky is a watercolor of oranges and purples, Peter realizes that his legs have been talking him to his apartment in Queens. _Aunt May's_ apartment. He doesn't live there anymore.

The longing in his chest outweighs his sense of logic and he finds himself scaling the side of the brick building up to his bedroom window.

The curtain is pulled aside. However, when he peers in, it looks nothing like his room. There's no bunk bed, just a desk with a laptop on it with a small bookshelf shoved in the corner. His Star Wars posters are gone. His old Avengers action figures, gone. The Stark Expo hat on his dresser, gone.

It's like what Infinity said—every remnant of him is gone. There's nothing left that shows any signs of Peter Parker ever existing.

Before anyone can see him looking into the apartment, he climbs up the rest of the brick up to the roof.

As soon as he's up there, he tears his mask off and sucks in a large gulp of air that gets caught in his throat.

His face crumples. Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he whispers desperately, "What am I supposed to do?"

His eyes sting. A lump in his throat appears and he struggles to breathe around it.

Arms falling to his sides, Peter looks out across the city silhouetted by the sunset.

"Can any . . . cosmic entities hear me?" he asks, ignoring how rough his voice sounds. "Infinity, Eternity? Death?"

The breeze whistles past him. Car horns beep, a siren wails down in the streets somewhere. But no response.

He huffs out a heavy breath and steps over to the western edge, carefully sitting on the ledge as his feet dangle below him.

"Well, Death, if you can hear me, I had fun with you yester—I mean, three months ago." He sniffs. "We should . . . We should hang out again sometime. Whenever you're free, though, of course. But you should take another day off sometime, or maybe just an afternoon; it's not good to be constantly working without any breaks."

His gaze falls to the street below. The people walking past him are oblivious to his watching. Oblivious to his existence.

"I heard you got hurt in that battle, and that you aren't feeling too great," he adds. "I hope you're okay."

His eyes lift to the sunset across the horizon broken up by skyscrapers. He imagines what the Avengers are doing, what Ned is doing, and what Aunt May is doing. Maybe the Avengers just got done with another mission and are celebrating. Maybe . . . maybe Thor and Hulk are there now, who knows? Ned's probably doing homework. It's not even May anymore, it's August. Peter missed out on finals and his entire summer break—not that he's ever going to be able to go back to school, anyways. And Aunt May is probably alone in her apartment watching soap operas eating a microwave dinner. Hopefully, without Peter's mouth to feed or school fees to pay off, she has a little more money to afford nicer things, like that jacket she was eyeing a while back.

Peter sighs. In a softer voice, he says, "I hope you're all okay."

There's no response.

He wasn't expecting one, but it still hurts.

Chewing on his bottom lip, Peter decides that he can't stay there on the rooftop all night. It may be August, but nights can still get chilly, especially since he doesn't have anything other than his suit.

He pulls the mask back on. Through his burning eyes, Peter sets his focus on a taller building and aims. His hand is shaky as he shoots a web. Without a moment's hesitation, he leaps off the roof.

There is no clear destination in his mind as he lands on the pavement and starts walking through the city. He's homeless now—he needs to accept the fact—and he needs to adapt. As much as he wants to knock on Aunt May's door and explain everything to her, he knows he can't. That's not even an option.

So, he winds up settling for the cramped and smelly space behind a Japanese restaurant's dumpster in a dingy alley. It'll keep him from sight and keep him mostly covered if it decides to rain during the night.

He sits with his back to the rough exterior of the Japanese restaurant and his knees pulled to his chest. He leans his head against the dumpster to his right but immediately pulls back when his temple touches something sticky.

Sighing, he lies his forehead against his knees and allows his eyes to close. For not existing for three months, he sure is exhausted. He's not so sure how much rest he'll be able to get all curled up next to the dumpster, though.

 _It's only temporary_ , he tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut. _It's just for tonight. I'll find a better place tomorrow._  
  


Then, barely audible, he promises, "Tomorrow will be better."


	5. Chapter 5

Peter has grown up in a financially-tight household ever since his parents died and he was handed off to his father's brother and his wife. Unlike Richard and Mary Parker, Uncle Ben and Aunt May weren't scientists with PhDs and stable jobs under their belts. They tried, though. Uncle Ben worked hard as a beat cop and tried to get promoted only to watch his fellow officers around him getting the recognition and pay raises they deserved. Aunt May—she tried, too. She worked long, hard hours at the hospital.

After Uncle Ben died, things only got tighter. The fridge was a little more empty, their cabinets more bare. Peter was thirteen, and he offered to try to find a way to make more money—sell his toys, now some old people's lawns—but Aunt May refused. She assured him everything was going to be okay, that he shouldn't worry about those kinds of adult responsibilities. So, Aunt May picked up more shifts. They limited their shower time to under six minutes each. Eventually Aunt May was promoted, so he was able to buy some new school clothes for his freshman year at Midtown High. She still got her clothes at Goodwill, though, and he still has to duct tape his worn-out sneakers.

Peter knows how to deal with having a light wallet.

What he doesn't know how to deal with, however, is having an empty wallet. Or, in his case, not even having a wallet.

It feels odd waking up on a Wednesday morning in late August and not going to school. Well, it feels weird after he finds out that it's a Wednesday in late August in a stack of newspapers for sale on the street.

Peter's just walking around, the occasional passerby giving him an odd look at his attire, trying to come up with a way to find a change of clothes. He has no money and no closet, and he refuses to steal.

That leads him to a dumpster. There are some duplexes that line the street, so surely someone has thrown out some clothes recently, right?

For someone who died and then stopped existing only to be brought back three months later, he has a lot of hope.

In the end, that hope pays off.

Peter's digging through his third dumpster when he spots fabric. Quickly plucking the banana peel and square of cardboard out of the way, he pulls the material out and holds it up.

It's an old sweatshirt for Hostos Community College. Still holding it out, Peter peers back into the garbage, partially hoping to see a pair of pants as well. When he just sees more trash, he turns back to the sweatshirt and is just happy that he found this.

He retreats into a closed-off alley and slips it on over the suit. It hangs loosely on his frame—the sleeves going over his palms and the bottom hem hanging down to his thigh—but it's better than nothing and only has a hint of a smokey smell. All he needs to do now is find some pants.

His stomach grumbles.

Okay, maybe find some breakfast first. Then pants.

Food is something he's been trying to hold back on thinking about. With his enhanced metabolism, he doesn't know what he's going to do. He needs to eat, like, 5000 calories a day to maintain his current weight and lean, muscular figure. There's no doubt in his mind that he's going to eventually lose some pounds.

Hopefully it doesn't get too bad, though. There must be nice people out here who would recognize him as a starving kid and give him something to eat, right? At least until he manages to land a job of some sort to start paying for food?

Just like with the clothes, Peter vows not to steal any food.

Spider-Man can't do that— _Peter Parker_ can't do that.

So, after pocketing the mask in the sweatshirt pocket and running his hand through his hair, Peter sets off towards the busier streets.

At first, Peter plans to just go up to vendors and restaurant employees to ask if they've got any food that is expired or messed-up orders they were going to throw out.

The first place Peter tries is a Mexican restaurant. A bell over the door jingles as he walks in. The man behind the counter—a plump man with a sweaty forehead and big ears—looks Peter up and down, most likely taking note of his sweatshirt over what probably looks like red and blue leggings.

Peter offers the man a smile as he approaches the front desk. "Hi, I was wondering if there was any food you guys were going to throw out soon? Like, expired or burnt food, or messed-up orders?"

A look passes over the man's face and he scoffs. Shaking his head, he says, "No free food."

"Oh. Okay." Peter smiles awkwardly, trying to be polite, but then his stomach makes a loud grumble that sends a sharp pain through his abdomen. How long has it been since he's last eaten anything? It must've been at least an hour before Death showed up three months ago. "A-Are you sure? I mean, if you're just going to throw it away, where's the harm in—"

"I said no," the man snaps. He shoos Peter towards the door. "Leave my restaurant before I call the cops."

"Yes sir, sorry," he sheepishly babbles before turning and rushing to the door.

He hears the man mutter something about "lazy-ass kids" on his way out.

The next restaurant isn't nearly as harsh, but still turns him down. The woman working the front gives him a sympathetic smile as she tells him that it's against their policy, but there are some cheaper items on their menu if he had any money to sit down and order.

If he had any money, he wouldn't be going around asking for scraps. The more and more he asks, the more and more his hope dwindles.

His pride takes a nose dive when he passes by a bakery shop and his nose picks up the scent of pastries in their dumpster. He stands there, idle, like he's actually thinking about going through their trash to get food.

 _No_ , he tells himself, _I'm not stooping to that level._

His lurching stomach says otherwise. With a longing look, Peter rips his gaze from the dumpster and forces himself to keep walking.

Not even ten minutes after walking past that donut shop and promising himself that he wouldn't dig through the trash for sustenance, he breaks.

It's humiliating, really. His cheeks are red hot as he looks over his shoulders before shuffling up to the trash bin in an alley right outside the back door of a sandwich shop.

 _Just this once_ , he promises. _Just to hold me over until I can find a better source of food._

He leans over the lip of the bin and pilfers through its smelly contents. There's plastic, shredded lettuce, empty bags, smears of mayonnaise, and some used tissues and paper towels. After pushing aside a some greasy napkins, his eyes land on a half-eaten top of a sub bun.

He starts to reach for it, but before he can grab it, the side door slams open. Peter jolts back, wide-eyed and caught red-handed.

"Hey, get outta 'ere ya gutter punk!" a middle-aged man with a stained apron shouts, brandishing a hand towel like a weapon.

Peter nearly trips over his feet to run away.

As soon as he's out of the alley and down the street, his ears burn bright red as the shame and embarrassment sinks in.

_Gosh, what would Aunt May think? What would Ned, or Mr. Stark think?_

They'd be so ashamed of his actions, he's sure.

Buthe's still _hungry_.

He hasn't eaten in over a day, and his stomach is revolting. He can't keep it up much longer, not with his crazy metabolism. He needs food. He needs it now.

His stomach cramps painfully and he clenches the front of his sweatshirt in a fist.

Peter's gone without food for this long before, but that was before he got bit by that spider. Now, he usually eats three meals a day with some snacks scattered between. Aunt May knows that Peter has to eat more than a normal teenager, and although she doesn't know the extent of it, she still makes sure goes to bed with a full stomach. And even though Mr. Stark doesn't know about his enhanced metabolism at all, he still supplies him with protein bars after each mission. Peter knows how it feels to be hungry.

But not like this.

Everything that's been building up—dying, seeing people mourn his death, fighting against a terrifying cosmic entity, not existing for three months, and coming back with absolutely nothing and no one—finally spills over.

Tears burn behind his eyes as he races to find someplace to hide his shame and sadness. He barely manages to keep the tears at bay long enough to duck out of sight of everyone walking the streets behind a tall brick building. As soon as he's alone, the dam bursts and he slides to the ground, silent sobs racking through his aching body.

He doesn't care that he's on the germ-infested ground of New York, he curls up into a ball and cradles his stomach. Sharp jabs of pain shoot through his abdomen and he cries harder.

He's not crying just because he's hungry. The weight of everything crashes over him like a wave and pulls him further out to sea where his feet can't touch the ground. He's drowning in grief of a life that no longer is. He's grieving Aunt May, Ned, Mr. Stark, school, homework, Academic Decathlon, the apartment, pasta dinners, take out Tuesdays, Clint, Natasha, Steve, Sam, Bucky, normalcy.

Everything's been stolen away from him like someone ripped the rug out from under his feet and he's falling, falling, falling, falling.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, chest heaving for air as his breaths come in short and shallow. "I'm sorry, I don't . . . I don't know what to do."

He's not sure who he's apologizing to. Maybe Aunt May, because without him she's all alone. Or Death, Eternity, and Infinity, who worked hard to bring him back only to have him not even know how to survive after a full day. Maybe to God, because why else would this be happening to him if he hadn't majorly screwed up somewhere along the way?

That's not fair. He didn't screw up—well, yes, he has definitely screwed up many times before—but that's not why he's in this position. Sure, Death is the one who brought him into her little realm thing in the first place, and Eternity didn't bring him back to life before helping Death out like planned, but it all comes down to Peter. He is the one who jumped in front of Oblivion's line of fire. No matter who brought him into the situation, it was ultimately his decision.

He chose this life, so now he has to survive it. If that means he has to dig up an old McDonald's burger from the trash and sleep in dirty alleys, then so be it.

Eternity, Infinity, and Death brought him back for a reason. And, hey, he still has the suit, mask and all. Maybe New York could use a little re-introduction to Spider-Man, only this time he'd be a full-time superhero that's not confined to after-school hours and curfews.

Peter moves to push himself back up to stand, but falls back down to the ground and clutches his middle with a wince as his stomach painfully protests.

Right. He'll re-introduce Spider-Man _after_ a garbage-sponsored meal.

Blowing out his cheeks as he slowly rises to sit with his back against the building, Peter mutters, "Holy guacamole, I could eat the entire sheep population of New Zealand."

At this point, it doesn't even feel like an exaggeration.

He's doubled over as he stumbles from trash can to trashcan. If he finds any food, it's not salvageable. Just a bunch of chicken wing bones, wrappers, and crumbs.

It isn't until he throws himself over the lip of a big, green dumpster and basically swims in it like an infinity pool that he strikes gold in the form of a dented Krispy Kreme box. His fingers shake as he hurries to open it up.

There's two glazed donuts. Relief floods over him.

"Score," he murmurs, reaching up and closing one of the lids before jumping up to sit on it as his feet dangle into the trash below. With the box on his lap, he digs in, eyes fluttering closed and a deep breath exhaling through his nostrils as he takes the first bite.

It's stale. It's hard and kind of gross and the glaze flakes off and sticks to his lips, but it's so _good_. His stomach greedily vacuums both donuts like a black hole. It doesn't make much of a dent in his hunger, but the monster in his stomach is momentarily satisfied.

Now that he doesn't feel like he's going to keel over any second from starvation, he becomes acutely aware of his next issue: he's thirsty.

Great _._

 _Since when is having a body so high maintenance?_ When he was "dead," he didn't have to eat or drink or even use the bathroom.

Fortunately for Peter, water is much easier to come by than food. All he has to do is walk in the front door of Taco Bell and head straight for the bathrooms. The water from the sink leaves a coppery taste on his tongue when he straightens from holding his mouth under the tap, but it's not going to kill him. Probably. Hopefully.

He sends the sink a wary gaze and turns it on again. The water that sprays out only has a slight tint of brown to it.

Yeah, he'll be fine.

On his way out of the dingy Taco Bell, Peter overhears a woman asking her wife for the time. When she replies that it's a quarter past three, Peter's mind automatically goes to _Oh, school's out._

As soon as the thought comes, the lightness in his mood from finding a water source and those two glorious donuts dims. His pace slows, but before the person he hears walking behind him can run into his back, he picks up his pace again and pushes open the door and steps out into the warm August afternoon.

School's out. That shouldn't really mean anything to him, not anymore. It's not like he goes to school anymore.

But Ned does.

If it's 3:15, then if Peter hurries over to Midtown Tech, he could probably catch Ned before he gets on the bus and . . . What? Then what, he would actually _talk_ to him? He wouldn't know who he was!

But maybe he doesn't have to talk to him. He could just, like, watch. To make sure that he's okay. Midtown's a pretty big school, maybe he could jump on the bus and sit next to Ned, re-introduce himself like how he's going to with Spider-Man.

With a frown, Peter looks down at himself. He still hasn't gotten around to finding some pants to pull over the bottom of the suit, or shoes for that matter. Plus, he's wearing a stained community college sweatshirt. No way would the bus driver let him get on.

Fine, then. Peter will just head over to make sure Ned is doing okay. He won't say anything, won't approach him, nothing.

It's fine.

Without another moment's hesitation, Peter starts towards Midtown Tech. It gets a little hot with the sweatshirt over top the suit and all, but it's not too bad. All it does is make him aware of the fact that he could use a shower. Sleeping on the street, dumpster diving, and sweating will do that to a teenage boy. Or anyone, really.

Peter arrives near the high school's campus just as a sea of students and raging hormones file out of the front doors. He tries to act inconspicuous, shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pocket and running the pad of his thumb over the mask, leaning against the city bus stop sign.

The sign shifts against his weight, so Peter awkwardly shuffles and sits on the bench. Casting a glance over his shoulder towards the front of the school, he tries to locate Ned. His eyes scan a bunch of blondes, red-heads, and brunettes, but he can't find his best friend.

Or, old best friend. Used-to-be best friend. Are they ex-best friends if they didn't have a falling out, one of them just forgot about the other's entire existence?

Peter gives up the facade of casual and just turns his whole body around to survey his old classmates. He recognizes a few faces—Michelle Jones, Brad Davis, Flash Thompson, Abe Attah—but when he can't find the face of Ned Leeds as the crowd thins, he sighs and starts to turn away.

As he's looking away, he catches a familiar figure from the corner of his eye and quickly returns his gaze. His chest tightness.

There, standing by himself as he waits for the school bus, is Ned Leeds.

He looks the same. It looks like he still does his hair exactly like how he did it three months ago when Peter was still in his life, and he dresses the same, too: same clean sneakers with the same dark jeans and the same dark blue hoodie over the same Star Wars shirt. The only thing that strikes Peter as different is how lonely he seems. Students are passing by, talking to their friends, laughing and texting and playfully rolling their eyes. Ned is in the middle of it all, yet he is standing by himself, looking down at the ground.

His obvious loneliness pulls Peter up to his feet, but before he can make a move to do something as stupid as walk over to him, a blonde girl—Betty Brant, the pretty blonde girl in charge of the school's video announcements club—steps up to him. Peter freezes and watches with a furrowed brow as Betty smiles and talks to him. Ned smiles, too, and says something back. Peter wishes his enhanced hearing could pick up their voices over the space between them and all the noises of the city.

His confusion only grows as he watches Ned and Betty get on the bus after it pulls up together.

Betty Brant has never approached Ned before. No one, other than Peter and sometimes Michelle, ever has. It's not that Peter thinks lowly of his friend—he was honestly always confused why everyone didn't want to be his friend because he's funny, nice, and amazing company—it's just that the both of them have been stuck on the bottom of the social ladder. Girls like Betty don't just walk up to them.

They didn't, at least.

Despite trying to convince himself this is a good thing, that Ned isn't all alone, he can't help the pit in his heart grow. A selfish part of him wanted to see Ned be lonely. He wanted to see that his life had somewhat of an impact on him.

Apparently he's fine. Which is good.

 _This is good,_ he tells himself like a mantra. _This is a good thing. Ned deserves friends._

Peter sniffs and turns. He looks back over his shoulder a few times, but forces himself to keep moving forward.

Ned has clearly moved on. (Not that he actually had something to move on from.) With a hint of self-pity, Peter wonders how everyone else is doing without him.

He makes a mental list of people to check up on. To make sure they're doing well, of course, not to rub it in his own face how good everyone's lives are without him. With Ned off the list, all who remain are Aunt May and the Avengers. Considering he's in Midtown, it'd make sense to go to the Avengers tower first, then stop by Aunt May's.

Obviously, he can't just waltz into the Avengers tower like he owns the place. Requesting an appointment with the team is also not a possibility. Maybe he can, like, climb up the side and peer in through a window?

_No, that's just creepy._

He frowns. How else is he supposed to check up on the team?

He stops walking, a sign catching his attention from the corner of his eye. When he turns and spots the public library across the street, it's like a lightbulb goes off in his brain.

Peter doesn't hesitate to change his course and, after looking both ways, jogs to the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

The library is mostly empty when he walks in. There's a large, dark, wooden desk straight ahead with an elderly woman sitting behind it. She doesn't look up from her computer when Peter steps inside and glances around. To the left are some bookshelves, and to the right are some more, but he catches a glimpse of some computers at the far wall. Glancing at the librarian, Peter makes a bee-line to the computers.

The screen is all dusty, but at least it connects to the free internet. He pulls up Google and types in "Avengers" before pressing the search button.

His eyes scan over the top news stories fromThe New York Post, CNN, CBS, Fox, and The Daily Bugle. He clicks on a link of a New York Post headline: "More Amendments to the Sokovian Accords—What You Need to Know."

The accords were the whole reason why Tony tracked down Peter in the first place. Since then, they have made amendments so the team has more control over their missions and involvement with threats all over the world, and it turns out they are still working out the kinks. Tony never said much about the Accords to Peter; something about not wanting him to worry about grown-up stuff. 

Other than the Accords amendments, it seems like his team hasn't been up to much else since the alien robot fight in May. Peter isn't surprised—but is, admittedly, a little disappointed—when there's nothing said about Spider-Man's involvement of taking down those androids. He never got much news coverage anyways, so he shouldn't be that affected by it.

Clicking out of the tab a bit harsher than necessary, Peter shuts down the computer and pushes his chair out, getting to his feet. The librarian offers him a smile on his way out, but he notices the slight disgust as her lips curl when she takes note of his attire.

He knows he looks rough. He knows he looks like he could use a long shower; he does need one.

More than anything else, though, Peter just wants a hug from Aunt May.

The sun is getting a little low in the sky, so Peter estimates it's around five in the afternoon, meaning Aunt May would probably be back from work by the time Peter makes it from Manhattan to Queens.

It also means that he's hungry again, but he _needs_ to see Aunt May before he can worry about starving to death.

The walk from Manhattan to Queens takes a few hours. The entire duration of the walk, Peter keeps his head down and his hands shoved in his sweatshirt pocket. The clouds hanging high in the sky begin to drizzle, so he throws his hood up. The drizzle turns into a sprinkle, then a soft rain, then a downpour. Thunder rips through the sky like Thor is having a tantrum . . . wherever he is. Asgard, probably.

His sopping wet sweatshirt clings to his suit underneath and weighs him down as he trudged through the storm. The only upside is that the thunder blocks out his stomach's angry grumbling. It makes it easier for him to ignore the stabbing pains in his abdomen.

Luckily for him, Peter's stickiness isn't hindered by the rain. He just needs to focus a little more on not slipping down the side of the building as he climbs, but it isn't impossible.

Like the day before, Peter crawls up to the window. Instead of peering through his bedroom, he shifts to the window next to it that looks into the living room.

The warm lighting inside looks more inviting than ever. He can't see the TV from the window, but he can tell from the laugh track and voices that it's playing old _Friends_ reruns.

A knock snaps Peter's eyes to the front door. His gaze shifts to the hall when he hears footsteps, then Aunt May emerges, her hair tied back in a pretty braid and an outfit that looks a little too nice for casual. She hurries to open the door.

A man is standing on the other side with a bouquet of flowers. It isn't someone Peter remembers ever meeting. He smiles, and Aunt May smiles, and then they lean in and kiss.

Peter quickly leans away from the window and presses his back against the brick, brow furrowed.

She's dating someone. Cool. That's good.

Before anyone can see a soaked-to-the-bone teenager defying gravity and sticking to the side of the apartment building, he scrambles up to the roof and paces.

Aunt May hasn't dated anyone since Uncle Ben died two years ago. She always told Peter, "It's just the two of us against the world, now."

It makes sense that she'd be dating again, though. It's not like she has to worry about taking care of her teenage nephew anymore.

It just . . . it hits him hard, just like seeing Ned with Betty. It was Peter and Ned at school, and he assumed that once he stopped existing, Ned would be left to be all alone. It should be a good thing that he has other friends. At home, it was Peter and Aunt May. They would have dinner together, have movie nights together, go get ice cream together.

He supposes it hurts because nothing fell apart. He wasn't a vital piece. It's like . . . it's like his life didn't have any real impact on anyone or anything. It's not their faults they aren't grieving him or missing him, but it still feels like he's been tossed to the side of the road or ejected from everyone's lives.

It's not fair.

He tugs on his hair, wet and curly from the rain.

 _Stop self-pitying,_ he scolds himself, tugging harder on the roots of his hair. _You did this to yourself. Quit whining._

The rain seeps through his suit. It leaves him shivering and his teeth chattering, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Cradling his howling stomach, Peter curls up in a ball and sits in the corner against the ledge around the perimeter of the roof. He tucks his head into his arms and closes his eyes and prays that, when he wakes up, it was all a dream. Or, if he wakes up in the same nightmare, that he'll at least have the strength to keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think!


End file.
